


no just trust me you don't watch them in order

by winchysteria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Gratuitous Star Wars References, M/M, Movie Night, Nerd Dean, Punk Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punk!Cas uses Nerd!Dean's hardcore Jedi feels to sneakily get cuddles. It's as dumb as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no just trust me you don't watch them in order

**Author's Note:**

> for Molly (theleagueofrighteousassholes on tumblr) who keeps giving me AU ideas  
> find me at winchysteria.tumblr.com

Cas snatched the laptop, red-streaked hair scratching across Dean's nose, and poked at the image.

"What is that," he said, less as a question than a command.

"That's the symbol of the Jedi order," Dean answered, plucking his computer back out of his friend's hands. "Why?"

Cas just grinned, a slow spread of teeth that he knew meant trouble. Dean sunk back in his chair and fixed him with a tired glare.

"You want a tattoo of the symbol of the Jedi order."

"I want a tattoo of the symbol of the Jedi order," Cas agreed, smile growing impossibly wider.

Dean paused, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose under his glasses and breathe. "No. No, you needle-happy monster, you are not getting a tattoo identifying yourself as an elite defender of the galaxy," he said, eyes squeezed shut. "You haven't seen a single one of the movies. You have no attachment to that symbol at all. You're just riding the high of being old enough and financially stable enough to permanently imprint your skin with any image that holds your attention for longer than two seconds, and I _will not_ -" he gave Cas a point and a look- "allow you to cheapen the Jedi legacy with your inky carelessness."

The other boy was still smiling, eyes twinkling in that steely way that Dean was smart enough to be terrified of. "Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No, don't you  _dare_ -" Dean began before a librarian interrupted with an emphatic shushing noise.

Cas cocked his head towards the doors, and Dean assented- God knew he wouldn't be able to get any more done on his paper with today's study partner. He didn't know why he never protested when the black-clad, smirking menace sat down at his table in the library.

No, that wasn't true, he thought as he followed Cas out onto the quad. That second day of the semester, when nobody else was even thinking about the library yet, Dean had been determined to lay claim to one of the peaceful tables in the most deserted part of the reference section. But when a guy with ethereal blue eyes and a snakebite lip piercing  swung into the seat across from him and kicked up his Doc Martens like he owned the entire campus, it was very hard to say no to him. It might have been easier without the gelled-up sex hair or the sharp collarbones peeking out from underneath an aggressively slouchy t-shirt, but that was life. Dean had pointedly focused on his laptop screen and said nothing, hoping he seemed more like he didn't give a shit and less like he had just forgotten how to form sentences in the presence of whoever this was.

The semester wore on, and he'd regained the power of speech but not the power of resistance. First the study table was a regular thing, then post-homework tacos were a regular thing, then somehow he was no longer surprised when he opened his dorm room door to find an artificially-colored sex god spinning in his desk chair. And he'd been some combination of unwilling and unable to stop any of it from happening.

Yeah, he knew exactly why he hadn't said resisted Cas.

And based on the current view from behind, he'd never be able to start resisting. Not unless he got him to buy different jeans.

Cas paused for a second as Dean jogged to catch up. "Okay, before you start protesting-"

" _NO_ ," Dean said forcefully. "No, you Avril Lavigne-inspired catastrophe, as the nearest available giant nerd, it's my moral duty to keep you from doing this. Do you even know what Jedi DO? Can you even name  _one_  of them? Are you at all aware of the context of that my Yoda quotes? I can't let this happen. A thousand copies of The Empire Strikes Back would burst into flame. George Lucas would die just to come back as a vengeful spirit and haunt us both."

He took a deep recovery breath as Cas clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Don't stereotype. I could be a  _huge_  fan of Star Wars and you wouldn't even know about it. Maybe your judginess is making all the alien children cry."

"No, if you were at all into Star Wars, we would have marathoned it already. Multiple times."

With a sigh like Atlas bench-pressing the sky, Cas stopped abruptly and squared his shoulders. "Is that what it'll take?"

Dean blinked and glanced back at him over his shoulder. "What?"

"Is that what it'll take to get you to approve this tattoo? A Star Wars marathon?"

Well, that was a proposition. "Ah- yes? I mean," Dean said, considering. "I don't think I'd ever be able to  _approve_ , but this way I'd be able to live with myself afterward."

Cas nodded and twisted his topmost cartilage ring. "Good. Tomorrow night. Yours. I will provide sustenance, you will provide the movies and the futon."

Oh. Okay. A Star Wars marathon  _with_  Cas. Fourteen-plus hours of totally platonic movie-watching and couch-sharing and close proximity, probably in pajamas. Well. If that didn't sound like his own personal form of torture. Not happening.

"Fine," he said instinctively, genuinely tempted to duct tape his own mouth shut. In an effort to hold on to at least a little bit of dignity, Dean held up one index finger. "We watch them in the order of my choice. No bashing the special effects. No falling asleep. No skipping scenes."

"Deal," Cas said. "And in return, not only will you not protest my tattoo, but you will come to the parlor in full support of it and make several positive comments about the endeavor and hold my hand when I get scared of the needles."

With a wink and a ruffle of Dean's hair, he was off like a shot towards the cafeteria, leaving Dean to slowly process the hand-holding comment, drag his hands down his face in anguish, and curse quietly.

He was  _almost_  tortured enough to just allow the tattoo without the movie marathon.

Almost.

\-----

The next night, his roommate Kevin took off as soon as he heard the words Star Wars- he had an econ paper due the next day and couldn't be in the same room as sci-fi- and left Dean alone with his neurosis. He had piled every soft thing he owned on the futon, wondered if that looked suggestive, folded them all and put them away, and then re-piled them on the floor in front of it instead. He had set all the DVDs out in front of the TV and rearranged them at least four different times before finally deciding on a chronological left-to-right spread. He'd spent twenty minutes deciding which franchise shirt to wear before finally settling on the episode IV cinematic poster, then had a brief crisis about pants options before remembering that he only owned one comfy pair without holes. (Not surprisingly, they were printed with a pattern of little lightsabers.) For some reason, he'd also managed to spend half an hour doing his hair exactly the same way he always did.

In short, he was going nuts, and he was torn between relief and terror when an oddly slow, muffled knock sounded at the door. He made himself wait three long seconds before shouting out, "Yeah?" as if it was totally possible that he got so many social calls that he didn't know who was there.

"Dean Winchester, if you do not open this door right  _fucking_  now I am going to drop at least one jar of salsa all over your hallway and when your R.A. gets mad I'll-" Cas cut off sharply as Dean threw the door open, trying not to look like he had tripped over a chair and his own feet on the way.

"Sorry!" Dean said, stepping out of Cas' path as he tottered in, eyesight impeded by an absurd amount of food, and dropped his burdens on the futon.

The other boy gingerly removed his arms from underneath all the bags and bottles, took a deep breath, and then smiled at his host. "Hello, Dean."

"Heya, Cas," he replied, far too close to a squeak for his own liking.

They both glanced around at the setup for a second.

"That's a lot of movies," Cas said.

"Yep." 

Dean self-consciously rubbed the back of his neck. Cas passed a hand though his hair. They both avoided eye contact.

Sinking into the floor was sounding like a tempting option.

Then Cas flopped on the futon and grabbed the remote. "Well, good thing I brought a lot of Red Bull."

\-----

They'd started A New Hope with three chip bags and two six-packs of Mountain Dew between them, but steady eating (and some  _completely_  unintentional shifting on Dean's part) left them pressed together from knee to shoulder by the end of The Empire Strikes Back. Dean (totally subtly) watched Cas watching the credits, internally cursing the necessity of getting up to change the DVD and breaking the casual contact.

On the bright side, Cas seemed absorbed. He was squinting fiercely at the screen with the same laser-focus that could make even the most indifferent professor feel naked in front of the room. Dean cleared his throat as he got up, snagging The Phantom Menace from the floor and fiddling with the player. "So," he said, bending to see the buttons better and to hide the nerves that must be obvious on his face, "what do you think?"

"The hell?"

Dean straightened up and glanced over his shoulder at the futon. Cas' eyes flicked up to his, and Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "What's getting you so indignant about Star Wars?"

He blinked a few times before he gestured at the disc Dean was holding. "Well, first of all, we watched four and five and now we're watching one? That's just not right. Second of all, I am your father? How in hell did James Earl Jones contribute DNA to a guy as white as Mark Hamill?"

Dean grinned smugly. "You'll find out, my friend," he said, turning to push the next movie in.

In the end, Cas did not move to a more practical place on the futon. Instead, firmly entrenched in the middle of the cushion, eyes already glued to the screen, he wordlessly patted a spot right next to him.

Their sides fit together like puzzle pieces, shifting whenever one of them reached for a handful of popcorn and settling somehow closer every time. And it was allowed, he guessed, or Cas wouldn't be hooking his foot under Dean's.

He gave up subtlety when he put in The Clone Wars, returning to his seat with an undignified flop that landed his legs sort of on Cas' lap. He felt kind of dumb until about the point when Anakin started using the force to impress Padme and Cas' arm slipped from the top of the seat and onto Dean's shoulders.

Normally, he got totally caught up in those movies. He would get lost in the story, enthralled by every dumb detail, completely gone from the world. Now, of course, all he could pay attention to was Cas. God only knew if he was even aware of how close Dean was to being actually in his lap. Odds were that he was an instinctive cuddler who was too involved in the film to really register who it was that he squeezed a little bit tighter every time a lightsaber flared out. That made sense, right?

And who was Dean to complain, he thought as he folded up into his friend's side for the second-to-last movie in the queue. He knew he himself was a tactile guy, and what was the harm in indulging that? None. No harm at all.

Cas didn't appear to notice Dean's head coming to rest on his shoulder.

\-----

Some time later, he felt Cas' collarbone bouncing under his cheek and scowled. "You said no sleeping," Cas stage-whispered, lips twisted in amusement.

Dean glanced towards the screen to see credits rolling. "Eh, those rules were for you, anyway. I've seen this all already. I don't count."

Cas chuckled, a movement that rumbled through every point of contact their bodies shared. "Well. Either way, I've come to a conclusion."

Dean finally pulled away from his shoulder to ask the obvious. "What about?"

"The Jedi symbol thing."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, not yet self-conscious enough to think about his legs unapologetically sprawled across Cas's. "And the conclusion is?"

His friend paused with all the curious performance quality that came with blunt honesty. "I am not going to get a Star Wars tattoo."

Dean couldn't decide if he was relieved or insulted. "What turned the tide, young Skywalker?"

Cas' answering smile was too close for Dean's sleep-fuzzy eyes to focus on, but damned if he didn't try. "Well," Cas said. "I think you've ruined me for any other shoulder ornament."

Blinking, Dean felt his brain try desperately to flag down a train of thought that looked like it was going somewhere promising. At some point he realized they'd been making eye contact for way too long to be casual.

"Cas." It was clicking.

"Yes, Dean."

The staring contest continued. It was hard to concentrate on a sentence that way, so he just went with the first one that popped into his head. "We've been cuddling for like twelve hours."

Wrong sentence. That was not the kind of sentence Dean had planned to say. But it was out there now, and Cas still hadn't moved his hand from where it had been resting on Dean's waist.

"True."

"You made up the Jedi tattoo thing so you could flirt with me for twelve hours."

Cas's face, raised eyebrows aside, was in fact impressively neutral.. "Also true."

There was a beat of charged silence, and Dean felt a grin tug at the corner of his lips. 

"Man, you suck at this," he said, before bracing one arm against the back of the futon and surging in to meet Cas' mouth.

If there were any lingering doubts about Cas' interest, he swatted them away with a hand cupping Dean's jaw and the pause of a throaty laugh before pulling the other boy honest-to-god into his lap. They shamelessly pushed deeper into the kiss, teeth clacking together a few times, Dean nipping at Cas' lip and twisting fingers into his already-disheveled hair. A loop of the Imperial March repeated in the background, but they barely pulled away to breathe until the TV went to sleep altogether.

In the silence, Cas put a hand on Dean's chest and sat back. They were both all messy hair and shiny lips; Dean panted as he memorized Cas' bright eyes. "You okay?" he asked, toying with the eyebrow ring under his thumb.

"I might want a Gandalf tattoo," Cas said with the hint of a laugh. "How long would  _that_  movie marathon last?"

"You're an asshole," he said, voice hitching as Cas snuck featherlight fingers under his shirt, tracing patterns into his lower back. "And I swear to God I would make you read the books first."

\-----

Dean never did get the hang of saying no to Cas.

But Elvish did look damn good inked into a shoulder blade.


End file.
